Chapter 43
I would not wish to be considered a pessimist but, the fact is, I believe we spend the majority of our lives in a state of deep confusion. This often manifests itself as a sort of continuous comatose condition in which the protagonist does as little thinking as is humanly possible, as this is by far the safest way of getting through the day without getting hurt.
Once you start to think, you’re letting yourself in for big trouble; it’s so easy to find yourself tripping up over a bit of stray morality, an untidy strand of ethics that someone forgot to stash away properly. If you’re not looking where you’re going, you’re almost certain to fall foul of these things, or worse. You may be wandering along one day minding your own business when all of a sudden you stumble into a great gaping question. Not a “Where did I put my wallet” or “Did I remember to feed the cat”, question; oh no, I mean a Question; a “Why am I here”, Question, or a “What am I doing with my life”, Question. You know the ones; sneaky little fuckers that have no right to be fooling around with miserable little half-wits like you and me. I mean, talk about mismatch, talk about being outnumbered. Poor little dozy human being, up against cosmic conundrums; I mean, it’s hardly a fair fight is it?
Mind you, there’s no one to blame but yourself; once you start thinking, you’re leaving yourself wide open, you’re making yourself vulnerable, you are - to coin a phrase - asking for it. Don’t come running to me with your nose bloodied because you ran slap bang into a Question, or fell flat on your face because you tripped up over an unseen philosophical principle. I can’t do anything about it. You’ll just have to suffer it. Like I said; better not to think in the first place; better to just get on with it.
Most importantly, avoid those nasty moral perplexities, as they will get you nowhere. Before you know it, you’ll be juggling with absolutes, a priori conditions, and doctrinal catechisms, and you’re bound to fuck up somewhere. I can guarantee that if you spend too long doing moral balancing acts you’ll fall over; you’ll end up being wrong or guilty or both. It’s a no-win situation, so you’d be well advised not to play the game in the first place. Unless, of course, you’re a masochist, in which case, be my guest.
Take, for example, this interesting little scenario. A man has fallen completely and profoundly in love with a woman who has disappeared from the face of the earth. He is convinced he cannot live without her, and in his efforts to find her he meets and befriends the woman’s older sister who, it turns out, is also dead sexy, and before anyone can say, “You sneaky, deceitful, two-timing little hypocrite,” he is wondering how he is going to get the older sister into bed.
What? Oh for Christ’s sake, you’re so busy occupying the moral highground that you probably can’t even see what’s going on. Stop damning and blasting him for a moment and look at the facts. He’s been conned; this supposed dream woman has misled him from the word go, lied to him and abused him. On account of her, he’s cut short his trip of a lifetime, been worried sick for three days, and cried himself to sleep. He has been stood up on the grand scale, and you’re pointing a finger of reproof and making silly noises with your tongue and front teeth.
Give the guy a break. It just so happens that throughout this miserable ordeal, the only kindness he’s seen has come from a charming and delightful young lady who, he believes, is showing more than casual interest in him and... well, what would you do? Okay, so it’s all progressing with what might seem to be indecent haste but remember, the guy’s young, and things do happen faster when you’re twenty-one. If he starts getting tangled up in the morality and ethics of the situation, he’s going to miss one of the all-time great opportunities; if he stops and listens to his peers, he’s only going to get confused and upset; if he starts thinking, he’s fucked. Better that he sinks into that wonderful deep, unquestioning confusion (see under: Human Condition) and with a bit of luck he may get laid.
Come on, you should be encouraging him shouting from the terraces, waving your scarves, hoping he’ll score. After all, we all know that he’ll pay for it in the end so we might as well let him have some fun while he can, a brief moment’s pleasure in a lifetime of pain. It’s not all that important after all; he’s already made his promises his commitments. He’s struck his bargains with God and his own conscience and twisted obsessions will ensure that he doesn t renege on that.
So how about a bit of support from the back rows there? How about a little cheering as our hero steps centre stage and, in an endearing little monologue confesses that, whilst he still loves Liana with all his heart there’s this other business which has nothing to do with love and everything to do with hormones and begging the audience their indulgence if they wouldn t mind being patient for a short while he s just going to nip backstage for a quickie. Thank you.
Chapter 44
We checked into a cheap travellers’ hotel near Victoria station, registered as Mr and Mrs Roger Michaels, crept up to the room and, shaking with a mixture of sexual anticipation and something that felt like adulterous guilt but could not technically be so, we went to bed.
Before Liana had waltzed into my life, I would never have believed I’d be involved in a situation such as this. What was it that had changed in my life? For years women hadn’t given me a second look. Why, suddenly, did beautiful women want to jump into bed with me within a day or two of meeting me? It was Lee who first used the phrase “sexual magnetism” to describe my supposed attraction. However, she was not the last, and if the truth be told, I still don’t know what the expression means.
Perhaps it was chemical? Perhaps at some time around my twenty-first birthday a couple of glands went critical mass and started overproducing pheromone attractors in such high concentrations that I was, literally, a walking mating machine. Perhaps it was a combination of my voice (which had recently dropped a further half octave), my slight astigmatism which caused me to focus more intently on people (very appealing, people love to be the sole focus of someone’s attention), and my obvious, desperate lust for beautiful women. I mean, who can resist someone who wants them that badly?
Whatever, here I was again, about to climb into bed with a woman who could make Venus cry, and all I could think to myself was: I hope Liana doesn’t find out about this. Not, “Oh God, this is terribly wrong, immoral, unethical and a really shitty thing to do... ”; not, “How can I be so fickle, I was crying over Liana just three hours ago for fucksake! ”; nor even, “What are the implications of what I am doing regarding the relationship between these two sisters?”.
Oh no, I was thinking, “I hope Liana doesn’t find out,” and it wasn’t because I thought she’d be hurt, but because I couldn’t help but believe by this stage that Liana was, by all accounts, extremely unstable and it was just possible that, should she discover that I was humping her sister, she might just kill me.
It was, of course, the risk, the implicit danger that acted as such a tremendous aphrodisiac. No sooner had the bedroom door slammed shut behind us than we were ripping off each other’s clothes with such ferocious intention that one might have thought the end of the world were nigh.
Lee’s appetite for sex was of the same order as her younger sister’s, and her approach quite similar, but there was one difference which, bearing in mind the location of our illicit tryst, could have caused a few problems. Lee was a good deal more vocal in her - how should I put it - response. She was also rather more specific in her use of language, which was both graphic and perfectly enunciated. I think the whole of South West London was a party to her directive that I, “Fuck harder, harder, harder you miserable prick, fuck me like you mean it!”, although frankly, at the time, I couldn’t have cared less.
She was lovely, of course, and I particularly liked her playful manner and her insistence that there was no point paying out good money for a hotel if we wanted to sleep, so we might as well make good use of the facilities. Had she suggested we camp out in the park for a week I would probably have agreed. This was my first experience o
f illicit sex; I really did feel as if I had just embarked on an affair, and rather than feel guilty, I was exhilarated.
Even as dawn broke I still had no idea whether this was merely an elevated one-night-stand or the start of something rather more substantial. After all the emotional traumas of the previous few days, making love with Lee was like an antidote to the confusion and heartbreak. For a few hours that night I was able to seek perfect solace in the arms of another woman, a woman who was both a complete stranger and also, by virtue of her closeness to Liana, like an old friend.
And despite the rather furtive nature of our liaison, it felt neither dishonourable nor tawdry; if anything, there was a rather ingenuous air to our activities, like a couple of kids who have been left unsupervised for the first time and are dis- covering just how much fun it is to play when no one’s watching.
In the morning, just prior to leaving the hotel, it was Lee who said what had, until then, been left unspoken.
‘She must never know, Michael. If she comes back, if you ever see her again, you must never tell her about this. You understand, don’t you?’
I nodded. In fact, I did not at that time understand very much of anything, which just goes to show how naive I was. But Lee was much more astute than me. Not that it would make any difference; it was already too late for that.
I saw Lee almost every day that week. Her parents were away on holiday for a fortnight, but we spent very little time at the house. Instead, we would meet at the café in Charing Cross Road, where Lee continued to taunt the Italian boys, especially Tony, who was quite puzzled by her behaviour. The café held an important association for us, and became, in some ways, the centre of our liaison, around which everything else revolved.
We did all the things that lovers do when they first meet; we went to the cinema to see a romantic film, to the theatre to laugh loudly at the latest Ayckbourn comedy, and to a rather nice Malaysian restaurant (which neither of us could afford) where, apart from eating too much, we also managed to get very silly on two bottles of over-priced Sauvignon. It was a great week.
My parents did not know what was going on, but were delighted to see my spirits restored. Richard, who was delighted to see me behaving so despicably, even offered his bedsit for one night, but we declined, preferring instead to return either to Lee’s parent’s house in Godalming, or more often, to the nasty little hotel around the back of Victoria station. It was more in keeping with the tenor of our relationship; we were having an affair, and affairs were carried out in seedy hotels in drab parts of London. Everyone knew that.
We didn’t mention Liana, love, or what would happen if. We didn’t ask, “What does this mean?” or, “What are we doing?”
And we didn’t say anything at all when, a week later, as we made love on Lee’s parents’ living room floor, a brick crashed through the front window pane, showering us with a thousand shards of glass.
Chapter 45
Do you think it meant that I did not love Liana, that it was all make believe? Do you think I cared less about her because I was screwing her sister? Is that how life works? What was it Richard had said about fidelity? Perhaps Richard’s reasoning was merely to justify his selfish behaviour, but he did have a point; there may be reasons why infidelity is wrong, but they have nothing to do with the sort of superficial morality that is usually waved about with such high-minded superiority.
I was enjoying being with Lee; I was enjoying her company, the access I had to her lovely body, her warmth and the excitement we generated in bed together. But I did not love Lee; I was not in love with her, and there was no way I could fall in love with her. There was a completely different feel to our relationship; it was fun, yes, and we did get up to some pretty erotic tricks which necessitated a greater intimacy than one would have thought appropriate for what was little more than a casual fling.
But let’s face it, that was all it was: a fling. There was a spark, a flash of electricity; there was mutual need and equally mutual understanding. Should the circumstances of our meeting have really made a difference? Just supposing I had never met Liana; suppose I had bumped into Lee at a party and we had hit it off and gone to bed together with the same casual intention that locked us together then? No one would have raised an eyebrow. If we had continued to meet in seedy hotels, no one would have minded. If we had sneaked a night or two together at her parents’s house whilst they were out of the country, no one would have objected.
Unfortunately, the circumstances of our meeting were not as simple as that, and someone did object, and made the objection known by hurling a brick through the window, a brick which, whilst having no identifying marks, made the same accusation that you’re all making now.
“How could you?
It’s an interesting question. It deserves an answer. Ideally, the answer would placate the enquirer in such a way that the incident need never be mentioned again. Alas, no such answer exists. You may wish to choose an answer for yourself that offers a neat explanation. How about, “Because he’s an evil, thoughtless bastard.” Or, “Because he has no scruples, no moral sense, no soul. ” Or how about, “Because he doesn’t know better,” or, “Because he’s a victim of social conditioning,” or, “Because he’s a slave to his hormones,” or, “Because he’s young and wants to experiment.” Let’s face it, even if all the above were true, would it have vindicated me in your eyes? Would you have said “fair enough” and forgiven me? I doubt it.
More to the point, would any or all of the possible reasons or excuses have vindicated me in the eyes of a woman who felt she had been in her sister’s shadow all her life, a woman who had been physically beaten, emotionally abused and sexually manipulated, perhaps by a succession of men, culminating in an alcoholic misfit who particularly liked slapping her about after they’d made love? Would any excuse or reason suffice for a woman who, within a matter of years, would no longer know her own identity, no longer recognise her face in the mirror, be unable to differentiate between the true facts of her personal history and a mythical version that she had unwittingly manufactured to protect herself?
Would any of it have made any difference to a madwoman?
Richard may have been right about fidelity; he may even have been right about love. But I’m afraid he was much mistaken about guilt. Guilt has nothing to do with feeling insecure. Richard may have enjoyed Crime and Punishment, but he certainly didn’t understand it. We may do all manner of extraordinary things because of love, but they are nothing compared to the things we will do because of guilt.
However, when you combine an excess of both love and guilt, only then will you see someone behave in ways that defy all reason. Especially if that someone happens to be an obsessive neurotic...
Chapter 46
I pulled on my jeans as swiftly as I could, taking care not to step on the jagged glass, and ran to the front door.
‘What are you doing? Are you mad?’
‘Just stay there; make sure you don’t cut yourself...’
‘Michael!’
I opened the door and peered out into the darkness. I could hear my pulse throbbing in my temples, distracting me, tugging at my attention. My right hand was bleeding - just a scratch, I could feel nothing. The air was bitterly cold, and everything was so still, so quiet, that at first I didn’t even notice her. Then I heard the quiet sobbing noises that I’d become so familiar with.
She was kneeling on the lawn, her face in her hands. I knew it was her; even in the half-light she was instantly recognisable; the silhouette of her body, her posture, the gentle heaving of those lovely shoulders.
A million thoughts rushed forward, each jostling and elbowing to make room for themselves, each demanding recognition, requesting attention. For every thought there was an accompanying emotion, and wedged in between were a number of physical responses which were mostly irregularities of pulse and breath. I had no sooner set eyes upon her than I was a mess of confused responses, unable to speak or act.
I stood
there for a moment or two, waiting for a sense of normality to return, hoping something would happen so that I wouldn’t have to make a decision. As it happened, no sooner had the thought entered my head than Lee appeared and with a half-whispered “Angela”, pushed past me and ran on to the lawn where she threw her arms around her totally unresponsive sister.
There have been many moments in my life when I have wished not to exist, when the sheer effort of living was just too great, the problems too harsh, the reasons “for” mere shadows when placed alongside the reasons “against”. It is not a suicidal wish; I have never wanted to die; just to be for ever unconscious, no longer aware of my own existence.
As I watched Lee hug her sister close and rock her gently, as Liana’s sobs seeped into the cold winter’s night, I was overcome with such a feeling. I did not want to be there, standing on the doorstep of a suburban detached in Surrey watching this latest bizarre scenario; I did not want to be anywhere. I did not want to be. It didn’t make sense. In theory, I should have been overjoyed. Liana was back, she was here, she had returned; we could start again. I should have been delighted, but I was not. I was terrified.
Kissing Through a Pane of Glass Page 17
